


Bare Beneath My Hand

by venis_envy



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M, Romance, Shaving, Slash, Tactile, Unresolved Sexual Tension, kink bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-18
Updated: 2012-09-18
Packaged: 2017-11-14 13:23:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venis_envy/pseuds/venis_envy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s the sound of it that draws his attention first; a blade sliding against a whetstone, sending a thrill through Merlin. It’s always so mesmerising in its consistent, monotone song of up-down, up-down, sliding, slick yet gritty, tiny shards of schist smoothing away the dullness of the blade’s edge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bare Beneath My Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sapphirescribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphirescribe/gifts).



> I haven’t written anything in quite a while, so dabbling around with Kink Bingo seemed like a good way to ease back into it. This is both my first fill, and my first ever Merlin fic. The bingo square for this one is “Shaving/Depilation”. Many thank yous to my hearts, sapphirescribe, vampthenewblack, and bfigment.

It’s the sound of it that draws his attention first; a blade sliding against a whetstone, sending a thrill through Merlin. It’s always so mesmerising in its consistent, monotone song of up-down, up-down, sliding, slick yet gritty, tiny shards of schist smoothing away the dullness of the blade’s edge.

He stumbles on his way past the door as he glances in, catches Arthur’s eye in the reflection of the mirror. He’s wearing nothing but a towel slung low on his hips having just emerged from a bath. Merlin looks away quickly, carrying about his task of laying out the many layers of garments Arthur will need for that afternoon’s pre-tournament banquet. He pauses when he’s finished, squeezing his eyes shut tightly and focusing in again on the sound of the blade being sharpened until it ceases.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, voice barely more than a whisper. 

He’s testing, Merlin knows, or perhaps teasing. Even from the other room, he knows it isn’t necessary to exert his voice, that Merlin is listening carefully, especially now.

Merlin snaps to attention quickly, running a hand down his face before returning to the washroom doorway. He stays the trembling in his hands by pressing them firmly against the doorframe as he peers inside. Steam fills half the room from the hot, fragrant water in the washtub, now causing the mirror to fog slightly and Arthur’s bare chest to glisten.

“I won’t be able to do this,” Arthur says, gritting his teeth in frustration. “The angle is all wrong, and this bloody mirror keeps fogging over.” He turns to Merlin, gaze scrutinising as though he’s carefully considering his options. 

Traditionally, as Arthur’s manservant, Merlin should be second in line to do his shaving when the royal barber isn’t available, but it’s no great secret that the boy is rather clumsy, and probably not to be trusted with sharp objects pressed to the prince’s throat. The idea of it, though, has been the focus of many of Merlin’s own indecent fantasies. He’s long since abandoned denying himself the truth of his attraction to Arthur, though he would never act on such desires.

“I could–” Merlin stops abruptly, quickly re-thinking the offer he was about to make, “go see if Gwen’s available, if you want,” he finishes instead.

“ _Merlin_ ,” Arthur chides. “Guinevere has her own duties to attend to before the tourney.” He holds out the blade in offer to Merlin, rolling his eyes in frustration. “It’ll have to be you.” Arthur seems to recognise Merlin’s hesitation and smiles almost reassuringly. “You can do it, I’m sure.”

“But, I...” Merlin’s head isn’t clear enough to know exactly what it was he was going to say. It isn’t that he doesn’t trust himself to actually be able to do what Arthur is asking of him, but the idea of being in such a compromising situation is rather unsettling. He also knows the level of trust Arthur must have in him to even ask in the first place, which somehow only adds to his already uncomfortable level of arousal. 

Merlin sighs in defeat, shoulders slumping as he moves forward and wraps his fingers around the jewel-encrusted handle of the blade. Before he’s pulled it away, Arthur’s other hand snaps out to grip Merlin’s wrist.

“Don’t. Cut me,” he says solemnly, blue eyes shining with the promise of his unspoken threat. 

Merlin swallows hard. “Of course not,” he says, taking the blade from Arthur’s hand and exuding as much confidence as he can muster.

Arthur releases Merlin and takes a seat in the chair opposite the wash basin, giving Merlin just enough time to gather his composure the best he can while Arthur’s back is turned.

Merlin steps around to the front of Arthur and, with two careful fingers on the prince’s chin, gently tilts his head. He examines the dusting of stubble, the direction of the hair growth, the angle of Arthur’s jaw. His gaze comes to rest on the curve of Arthur’s full bottom lip, and he thinks he’s probably stared a beat too long when Arthur clears his throat impatiently.

“Relax,” he says with a touch of false bravado. “I’m getting to it.” Rolling his shirtsleeves up, Merlin turns to the cupboard, collecting the appropriate oils and cloths.

Arthur is slouching in a very un-prince-like manner when Merlin turns back to him, his arms crossed over his bare chest, head tilted and eyes narrowed as he watches Merlin move.

Merlin sets his supplies down on the table beside them. Unstoppering the bottle of perfumed oil, he spills a palmful out into his hand. A trickle of it slides down his forearm as he rubs his hands together, warming the oil, and he can’t help but notice the way Arthur’s eyes seem to follow the droplet with rapt attention. He presses his hands to Arthur’s jaw, an enticing rasp of stubble dragging against his palms.

“Are you sure you can do this?” Arthur asks as Merlin slides his oil-slick hands down Arthur’s throat.

“I never said I could,” he replies, impressed with his own ability to speak. “You did.”

Lifting the blade, Merlin tilts Arthur’s head again, studiously ignoring the flare of heat that floods through him as their eyes meet, and presses the sharp edge to Arthur’s jaw. Arthur doesn’t even flinch, which causes another curious warmth to spread through Merlin; this time, not due to arousal, but the sheer force of emotion that strikes him at not only the bravery of his future king, but the absolute, unadulterated trust he has in Merlin.

Reluctantly, he drags his gaze away from the penetrating depths of Arthur’s eyes and focuses instead on the task at hand. The scrape of the blade dragging slowly up Arthur’s throat sends jolt through Merlin, and he almost smiles at his own accomplishment as the first stripe of skin is cleared of its stubble. He does his best to ensure each touch is as careful and skilled as possible, leaving no room for the lingering caresses he longed for. It doesn’t stop his mind from wandering, though, imagining each touch is something more intimate, more meaningful to both of them, every gentle brush of his fingers against Arthur’s skin a welcome reminder of his complete devotion. Merlin drags his thoughts away from that path before he’s too lost in them. 

After the fourth stroke of Arthur’s jaw, Merlin becomes more confident with the tool in his hand, almost able to _feel_ each thick hair as the blade’s edge tugs at them before catching and cutting through. He falls into it easily, and despite the opposite effect it has on Merlin, he can see how Arthur usually seems to find this so relaxing. Merlin is positively mesmerised by his own accomplishments with each new stroke that leaves Arthur’s skin touchably smooth in its wake.

Focused so intently on his task, Merlin doesn’t even realise that he’s stepped over Arthur’s lap, straddling him to get a better angle, until he feels Arthur’s hands on his hips. Merlin freezes, eyes widening as they meet Arthur’s for the first time in what seems like an hour. A stuttered apology falls from his lips as he begins to move away, but Arthur’s grip is firm and steady.

Arthur laughs a little breathlessly. “Don’t apologise to me when you’ve got a blade to my throat, Merlin. For a moment, you made me think you’d slipped.”

“N–no. I just,” Merlin looks down at the space between them.

“Just finish, would you,” Arthur says, his grip on Merlin’s hips tightening insistently, as if imploring him not to move away. He tilts his head down, then looks back up at Merlin, eyebrows quirked.

Merlin would blush furiously were it not for the fact that all of his blood seems to have drained from his face and is now congregating in his cock, so close to Arthur’s body that he can feel the warmth radiating off of him. Merlin squeezes his eyes shut tightly, concentrating on drawing his focus back to his duty.

“Something on your mind, Merlin? You look... distracted.” 

Merlin shakes his head. “Hold still,” he says firmly, long fingers slipping in the oil on Arthur’s jaw as Merlin tilts the other man’s head back. Arthur’s eyes slide closed, blocking the crystal blue and freeing Merlin from their hold. He takes a moment to admire the stretch of Arthur’s throat. There are a few short strips of stubble left on one side, the rest smooth and soft to the touch. And the fact that it’s _his_ fingers touching _his_ prince’s skin wracks Merlin with tremors of _want_ and causes his heart to stutter in his chest.

Merlin splays his hand out on the shaven side of Arthur’s neck, thumb pressed under his chin for stability. He adjusts the angle of his blade and begins to scrape away the remainder of the hairs. Merlin can actually feel Arthur swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the heel of Merlin’s palm and doing nothing to abate his continually growing arousal. 

Merlin finishes that area with a surprisingly steady hand and he’s glad for the reprieve when Arthur lifts his head, throat no longer quite as exposed and begging to be tasted. All that’s left now is the shadow of stubble beneath Arthur’s nose. With his thumb, Merlin spreads a bit more oil there, the bow of Arthur’s lip glistening with the excess and nearly causing Merlin to whimper at the sight.

He makes small, clipped strokes along with the quickened beat of his pulse, unable to ignore the fact that Arthur’s hands are still casually gripping his hips as if it’s the most natural placement for them. Arthur’s breath is warm and moist against Merlin’s thumb, coming in short puffs that Merlin desperately wants to lick from those full, pink lips. Despite the distraction and his increasing nervousness, he finishes rather quickly, Arthur’s upper lip just as smooth and hairless as his jaw. 

Tilting his head to the side, Merlin stares his fill under the pretence of admiring his work; the cut of Arthur’s jaw, the angle of his nose, fringe—still damp from his bath—falling across his forehead just over dangerously clear eyes that are staring intently back at Merlin. He holds Arthur’s gaze, allowing himself a moment to entertain the fantasy of being watched by Arthur with something other than amusement or disdain playing in his eyes, something as desperate and needful as Merlin always feels toward his prince. There’s an ache in his chest as he considers this, what it would be like to be able to just close the distance between them, press his lips to Arthur’s the way he’s dreamt of so many times. 

Absently, Merlin drags the labour-roughened pad of his thumb over the soft, pillowy flesh of Arthur’s bottom lip. It isn’t until he feels fingers encircling his wrist that he even realises what he’s doing. Arthur is still silently staring into Merlin’s eyes, his gaze not angry or even unkind.

Merlin doesn’t pull his hand away. He knows he should, but he doesn’t. Arthur’s hands on him, gripping his hip and wrist but not pushing him away, feel like a request more than anything; like he’s being offered an opportunity that he can either take advantage of or deny at his own will. Again, Merlin drags his thumb over Arthur’s lip, slowly, leaving no mistake of intent. Arthur is not one to sit silently against his will for anything, Merlin knows, and this would be no different. 

“What are you doing?” Arthur asks, words lacking the familiar edge that Merlin _knows_ should be there.

Merlin trembles with nervousness, heart hammering in his chest, but still he doesn’t pull away. His best attribute, after all, has always been his willingness to take chances. 

“Possibly getting myself killed,” he replies.

But he has no time to think of whether he actually _will_ be killed if he acts on his urge to kiss Arthur now, because in the next second, Arthur is pulling Merlin down onto his lap, lips parted against his in something just less than a kiss, but so much more than a promise. He’s waiting for Merlin to make the final decision, to _want_ and _take_ rather than feeling an obligatory push.

And Merlin does want. Of course he does. He always has. He brushes his lips against Arthur’s, gentle and tender before parting them, welcoming the kiss with a soft moan as he slides his fingers into Arthur’s hair and licks into his mouth. Arthur’s tongue is sweet, just as Merlin thought it would be, but nothing else is as he imagined. Powerful hands trained to wield a sword and command an army are gentle now as they roam over Merlin’s body. Arthur tips his head, deepening the kiss while still allowing Merlin control over it. He trails one hand up Merlin’s chest, hooking a finger into his neckline and tugging the fabric down. Arthur kisses a path from Merlin’s mouth to his jaw, down the side of his neck to that spot at the hollow of his throat that’s now exposed.

Merlin is dizzy with the sensation of Arthur pressed against him, kissing him, tasting his skin. He’s so lost in it all, so utterly wrecked, that he nearly misses the sound of the heavy door to Arthur’s chambers creaking open and an unfamiliar voice calling out timidly.

Merlin squeezes his eyes shut tightly, hands gripping Arthur’s shoulders tightly as if he’s the only thing capable of grounding him, of preventing Merlin from shattering into tiny fragments from the force of his desire. Reluctantly, he pulls away from Arthur, standing quickly and turning toward the wash basin just as the boy peeks his head through the doorway. Merlin holds Arthur’s gaze in the mirror, breath coming in shaky puffs as he tries to calm the staccato of his rapidly pounding heart.

“Sire,” the servant says. “The king requests your presence in the throne room immediately. The guests have arrived.”

Arthur nods in acknowledgment and dismisses the boy with a “thank you,” never taking his eyes off of Merlin. The boy scurries away quickly, slamming the door in his haste to return to the king. Merlin turns in time to see Arthur stand, re-wrapping the towel about his waist and displaying the tiniest teasing glimpse of his thigh in the process. 

“Meet me there,” Arthur says, tone nearly as dismissive as he was with the servant. 

It causes Merlin’s stomach to knot at the implication that whatever this almost was is now lost. He nods, still slightly muddled from what just took place between them, and moves to leave the room.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, hand snapping out and catching him by the wrist. He stares into Merlin’s eyes, saying nothing for a long stretch of time as his thumb traces a lazy pattern over and around the pulse point there.

Stepping forward, he presses his lips to the spot just below Merlin’s ear. His breath is hot and, to Merlin’s satisfaction, just as unsteady as his own. “This isn’t over,” he murmurs against Merlin’s skin before pressing a kiss to the spot and then leaving the room.

Merlin allows a moment for Arthur’s words to sink in before giving in to the smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Bare Beneath My Hand](https://archiveofourown.org/works/870221) by [sapphirescribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphirescribe/pseuds/sapphirescribe)




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